


Such a Day of Sweetness

by Abraxas



Category: Upstairs Downstairs (1971)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 16:08:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1232776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abraxas/pseuds/Abraxas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in an AU-series 3: The marriage of one member of the Bellamy household has unexpected but much longed-for consequences for two of the others. Characters: Richard Bellamy; Hazel Forrest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Such a Day of Sweetness

The impending marriage of James Bellamy to Lady Diana Russell had not instigated a period of tranquillity at 165 Eaton Place. If anything, the disruption to the household had increased.

As Hazel Forrest pulled the completed sheet from her machine and added it to the neatly typed pile, she was certain that the very foundations of that noble house were trembling under the workmen’s blows.

The pile of finished papers had been growing at an alarming pace, despite her efforts at lethargy; her fingers, too well-schooled, insisted on their usual brisk rhythm across the keys and the work that she had hoped might last until the evening was nearly completed. And it was barely teatime. Sighing, she set a fresh sheet into the mechanism and read the first paragraph of manuscript for far longer than was warranted. The handwriting was clear, firm, no need to peer at it or guess at the words and certainly no need to require clarification from the author. More was the pity.

She started to type, slowing her disobedient fingers to a more laconic beat.

For James she wished only the very best; she hoped, truly, that he would find the happiness and peace that he so obviously craved. There had been a time when her head had been filled with thoughts of him, with what she had believed was love for him. And he had seemed to care. It was the apparent caring, she thought, that had led her to care for him. He had seemed kind, generous, thoughtful, and he could be all of those things but the problem was that it never lasted, so unlike-

Hazel shook herself. Comparisons were pointless. Especially on her last day in the house. Even so, she allowed herself a few moments to look over at the desk that stood across the room from hers. Richard Bellamy was leaning back in his chair, angling the letter he was reading towards the window and the natural light that still fell into that half of the room and she had a fine three-quarter view of his face.

And the way he flinched, stoically, at every blow that sounded from the room next door.

He shifted slightly and Hazel, with a sudden guilt, turned her attention back to her typing, then started violently, the keys on her typewriter mangling, as what sounded like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse made their presence known in the morning room.

‘Are they attempting to break through the wall?’ She smiled weakly, trying to inject a note of humour into her voice.

‘That is the eventual plan, I believe,’ Richard replied. He sounded weary. Lines etched into his face and his jaw was tight. ‘Diana finds the morning room too small for her requirements.’

‘It seems rather unfair.’

He took in a breath and released it. ‘Well, it’s James’ house now. He can do what he likes.’

Unfair, and in extremely bad taste, Hazel thought. They weren’t even married yet, and Diana Russell was already dictating the changes to the house. And Mr Bellamy may be moving to a flat in St James, but he was still in residence. Still the master – that was something made very clear by Hudson and the rest of the staff. Even James acknowledged it, shamefacedly, as he brought the new plans for the house to his father for his approval.

‘I can’t imagine how different it will be,’ she said.

‘I’m trying very hard not to.’ They looked at each other and he smiled slightly, his features relaxing, before turning his attention back to his letter.

The silence would have felt comfortable if not for the thuds and muffled voices coming from the other side of the wall. The noise seemed to make the house shrink around them, closing in on the study that had come to be something of a refuge for her. It was a pleasant room. Very much a man’s room, but warm and welcoming; it reflected the personality of its occupant, Hazel thought, and she could not reconcile herself to the idea of it all being stripped away.

Not any of her concern, she reminded herself, and reapplied herself to her typing. It was her last day and once she was gone-

The keys jammed again and she unscrambled them with the end of a pencil.

When the study door opened sometime later and Hudson entered with his customary cat-like tread, he brought with him a whiff of plaster dust. There was a fine coating of it on his hair and even in patches on his otherwise immaculate black coat. The butler wore an uncustomary harried expression.

‘Excuse me, sir, will you and Miss Forrest be wanting tea served in here today?’

‘What time is it?’ Richard pulled out his pocket-watch, examined it in answer of his own question. ‘Are those workmen ever stopping?’

Hudson’s face twitched. ‘I am informed they intend to work through until six, sir. I have requested that they diminish the volume of their endeavours, but-’

‘Yes, yes, all right, Hudson,’ Richard said, firm, before the tirade began in earnest. He glanced at Hazel, put the pocket-watch away. ‘Will Mrs Bridges be very cross if we forgo tea?’

Another twitch across Hudson’s impassive face. ‘Well-’

‘Good.’ Richard stood and there was that immediate sense of energy that he always carried with him whenever he was in motion. ‘Miss Forrest, are you finished?’

Regretfully, Hazel pulled the last sheet from her typewriter. ‘Yes,’ she said, soft, and tried to hold back the disappointment that had risen and prickled uncomfortably behind her eyes. One last half-hour that she had been looking forward to far more than she had realised. She blinked rapidly.

‘In that case, we shall take tea out. That is, if you care to, Miss Forrest?’

‘Oh yes, that-’ She caught her breath. ‘That would be very nice.’

‘It’s the least I can do by way of a thank-you after all of your hard work. So, we’ll be-’ Richard blinked, finding his way impeded by his butler. ‘Thank-you, Hudson, that will be all.’

The breath blown down Hudson’s nose seemed to have risen from his toes and his eyes slide sideways, landing on Hazel; whatever fault he had found, Hazel was quite certain that she was being blamed. She couldn’t bring herself to care.

‘Very good, sir.’ Hudson took a step back and his eyes moved between the master and the secretary and he frowned fractionally.

‘Come along, Miss Forrest.’

Richard was all expansive amiability and his smile was infectious. He had become much more like himself again, more the man she had known when she had first arrived at the house and she thought again of Lili de Ternay. Not that the lady was the exact cause of the change in him, but it had become more marked after that particular episode. Hazel’s initial feelings towards the countess had been of concern – that a man so cruelly widowed should have his vulnerabilities preyed upon was intolerable – but in the end she had felt grateful to anyone who could offer Richard, however briefly, some sort of happiness. In between those two emotions, however, had been a period of confusion that she had only identified in retrospect. Jealousy, if she was honest with herself - and she did try always to be an honest person. That his affection, his trust, the warmest of his smiles should be given to someone so unworthy of them- That they should be given to someone else.

She had felt ashamed of herself for thinking it.

But his smile now was directed at her as they retrieved their coats from Hudson and made their way out of the house. Hazel smiled back.

 

ooOoo

 

It was not a _thé dansant_ but there was a string quartet situated discreetly in a small forest of potted palms and the strains of Shostakovich, though thoroughly anglicised, added a touch of the exotic to their tea.

‘What will you do now?’

Hazel replaced her teacup carefully. ‘I have a promise of work. A Mister Haworth of Bloomsbury wants a monograph typed. He’s an anthropologist.’

‘Ah.’

It was a gloomy prospect. Richard drank his tea and watched her, concerned, over the rim of his cup. ‘I hope that you have a little time off between jobs.’

‘It will be nearly two weeks before I’m wanted. But still plenty to do at home,’ she added, with a pretence at cheer. Two weeks with her mother standing over her and the stultifying propriety of Wimbledon.

‘Mmm.’ His blue-grey eyes had a tendency towards steel when he was thoughtful and he was regarding her thoughtfully now. ‘A welcome change from typing out boring political tomes, I’d have thought.’

‘Your book wasn’t boring – I enjoyed reading it. And typing it. And it got very good reviews.’

His lips curled slightly but that steely grey did not soften. ‘But you won’t want to be dragging around London from job to job forever, surely? You need a life of your own. You’ll want to be married.’

‘Will I.’ Hazel closed both hands around her teacup, relaxed them, placed her palms firmly down on the tablecloth, fingers splayed. ‘Strange how people always equate having a life with getting married.’

‘Do they?’

‘Yes. You just did.’

He looked at her, silent, as though she were a puzzle that he could not quite work out. ‘I suppose I did. But it is the way of things. It is what most people want.’

‘Yes. It is, isn’t it?’ The bitter little smile that caught the corners of her mouth felt small and mean and it hurt her. She studied the crumbs littered across the cloth between their plates. He was saying something that she didn’t quite hear; the roaring in her ears excluded everything else and the urge to speak, to say the words out loud, was suddenly so overwhelming that when she did raise her eyes to him and open her mouth she had the uncanny sensation that it was someone else entirely in charge of her actions.

‘I was married.’

Richard stared at her for a moment, expressionless, then there was the warmth of sympathy, but before that was fully formed came the puzzlement and she could see the unspoken question forming.

‘I know what you’re wondering,’ Hazel said quietly, resuming her study of the tablecloth. ‘If I have had a husband, why I am calling myself Miss Forrest? I’m not a widow.’ She made herself look at him. She could not tell what he was thinking. ‘I am divorced.’

‘I see.’

‘I was nineteen. I was in love. I- I thought I was in love.’

She could not bear to see his face while she spoke her terrible secret. And she told him all of it. The drinking. The beatings. Her fear and her shame. The flight back to her parents and what they had done for her. Cared for her. Protected her. Hidden her away and made her promise never to speak of it again. Never to bring it out into the open again. Never to love again.

‘…So, you see, they gave up everything for me.’

‘It’s what anyone would have done.’

‘But if I were to marry again, it would all have to come out. And they would be so ashamed.’

‘What on earth is there to be ashamed of? What were you supposed to do, stay with the brute until he had beaten you to death?’

She had rarely seen him roused to anger, but on those few occasions Hazel had been grateful that his ire had not been directed at her; but now he was angry and it was on her behalf and she found a strange freedom in that. She had, finally, managed to raise her eyes to his and when her gaze met his he reached across the table and took hold of both of her hands, his fingers, warm and strong, curling around hers.

‘I am sorry, my dear.’

‘There’s nothing to be sorry for – it is what it is.’ She had kept it all knotted up in her chest for so long that it almost hurt to let it go. Her breath rattled, shaky, coils of tension unspooling, relaxing. She felt light-headed and the only thing holding her steady was that warm grip on her hands. ‘Do you know, this is the first time that I’ve said it all out loud? To someone who isn’t a solicitor or a judge, I mean.’

‘And?’

‘And…’ She laughed suddenly, and felt as though she wanted to cry. She twisted her fingers through his. ‘Now that I’ve said it all it really doesn’t sound as bad I thought. My awful secret isn’t so awful after all.’

His thumb caressed the back of her hand, skin sliding across skin, back and forth, back and forth. She wondered if he was even aware of what he was doing.

‘You are very young and very beautiful,’ Richard told her. ‘No matter what your parents have said, you should marry again. And you will.’ He released her hands, leaned back in his chair. ‘Divorce isn’t so very terrible, not these days. Some people even think it fashionable.’

‘But you don’t.’

He paused. ‘No.’

Hazel linked her fingers together; she could still feel where he had held her. ‘I imagine that you’d always consider marriage vows to be forever.’

‘I do.’ The grey had softened to blue again, silver sparks deep down. ‘But forever is an absolute term and I’ve never felt entirely comfortable with absolutes.’ He paused again. ‘My daughter was divorced.’

Hazel was silent, staring at him. He nodded slightly.

‘It was some years ago, before she went to America. She too came home to her mother and me … it was a very different situation from yours, of course, but it was still a mistake. No-one should have to pay with their lives for one mistake. And no-one who is worth caring for could ever think the less of you for something that was not your fault. If anything you should be admired for having had the courage to get yourself out it.’

‘Mister Bellamy-’

‘Please’ – she raised her eyes to him again and he spoke to her so very gently, his voice velvet against her ears – ‘You are no longer my employee; there is no need to keep calling me “Mister Bellamy”. We are equals now, after all.’

‘Equals…’ Her eyes wandered over his face. She lifted her chin, spine straightening under the steadiness of his gaze. ‘Do you remember once my saying that until I had come to work for you I had never thought of politicians as being-

‘Fallible.’ He smiled again. ‘Yes, I remember.’

Hazel raised her eyebrows slightly. ‘That was your word. I had been going to say that I had never thought that politicians could be so nice.’

Richard now was the one who looked away from her. ‘Oh, come now-’

‘It’s the truth,’ she insisted, quiet. ‘I suppose that I had always thought of the ruling classes-’

‘I am hardly that-’

‘-of the ruling classes as being snobbish and prejudiced – and I daresay some of them are.’

He snorted, muttered something under his breath that she did not catch. Hazel continued, regardless.

‘And that made me see my own prejudices and assumptions. I was quite wrong.’

‘Not much of a lesson, as far as lessons go.’

‘Perhaps not. I hadn’t really thought of it as being a lesson.’ Hazel took a sip from her neglected cup and grimaced; the tea had gone cold and a thin layer of scum had formed on its surface. ‘I’m rather dreading Mister Haworth of Bloomsbury. Are you sure that you won’t need a secretary in St James?’

There was a moment of hesitation and then he said lightly: ‘Nothing for you to do, my dear. I won’t be writing anything when Parliament is back in session. And you can hardly call the flat a household – there’s no house to keep. Not that that was your job, really … I fear that I have exploited you shamelessly.’

‘I was glad to do it. I wanted to.’ She set her teeth firmly together, holding in the words that rose and demanded to be spoken. Hazel took a breath and said instead, ‘I’m glad that you are taking Edward with you.’ On his look of enquiry she felt her cheeks heat – _Drat_ , she thought, irritably – and knew that tell-tale points of colour would be visible in her usually pale cheeks. ‘Well… I imagine that moving somewhere new would be made much easier if you had a familiar face with you. Rose tells me that Edward is looking forward to it very much.’

‘Is he?’

‘Oh, yes. Valet to a Member of Parliament. Very smart.’

Richard grimaced slightly. ‘Jack-of-all-trades, will be more like it, I’m afraid.’ He paused and then added, indulgently. ‘Edward’s a good boy. And you’re quite right: it will be far more pleasant to have a cheerful soul about the place.’

The irrepressible Edward was already, according to Rose, deriving great enjoyment from describing himself as a gentleman’s private gentleman – much to the annoyance of Hudson, who could barely get a sensible word out of the young man. The thought of it brought a smile that touched the corners of Hazel’s mouth; she pulled herself out of her reverie and when her eyes focused on Richard again she found him studying her and the expression in his face was one that she couldn’t name. He seemed to shake himself slightly and that fleeting, nameless emotion was gone before she could catch at it.

‘But if I ever do decide on writing another biography, you will be the first person I contact.’

‘I hope so. I can help you with all of the research.’

He inclined his head, started to say something, stopped, looked at his pocket-watch and let out a long breath. ‘I suppose I should…’

She waited. ‘What?’

He put the watch away again. The air had grown thick and the string quartet was doing something unspeakable to Schubert. Hazel cleared her throat, fiddled with the spoon lying in her saucer.

‘What do you say to a stroll in the park? The fresh air might do us both some good.’

The time when she must depart for Wimbledon was drawing ever nearer. She would be late as it was, at this rate: she still had to retrieve her typewriting machine from Eaton Place and then make her way to the station for the Metropolitan Line and-

‘Richard.’ The rise and fall of his name felt strange; she lingered over it. ‘I’d like a stroll very much.’

 

ooOoo

 

Shadows lay long across the grass and the sky was deepening, cobalt-blue, the air holding residual warmth from the sun. But there was crispness on the breeze, Hazel could feel it snap against her cheeks and stir the tendrils of her hair. They walked side-by-side: close enough that they would brush against each other on occasion, but far enough apart that Hazel was fully, and always, aware of the separation.

And she was excruciatingly aware of _him_ , of each of his movements, of the thrill when he called her by her given name. She had always thought it prosaic and a little dull; from him it sounded musical.

Everything, it would seem, was simply better with the right person.

And that thought brought another wave of melancholy. Hazel fixed her eyes on the water glinting under the last rays of the late sun, and the family of ducks making their steady progress across the lake and promised herself that she would remember every detail of this. Beside her, Richard was lost in thought, brow furrowed, and she imagined that his thoughts were not entirely happy ones.

‘We could still-’ she began.

He started. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, what did you say?’

‘I was going to say that just because I’m no longer your secretary doesn’t mean that we can’t – that we couldn’t be friends. You did say that we are equals. As an equal, I can be your friend. We could still meet… Like today, we could have tea. And you could tell me all about the goings-on in Parliament and I could tell you all of my secretarial woes.’

‘The tribulations of a typist.’

She laughed a little. ‘That sounds like a column in a woman’s magazine.’

‘Well, perhaps you should write it – more fun than dusty bones, I should imagine.’ The lightness faded from his face. ‘That would be very pleasant. But, you see, Hazel, the problem is that I don’t want you for a friend. I love you far too dearly for that.’

Feet were not supposed to stutter, but hers did, catching at grass that was suddenly an obstacle to perambulation.

‘You… You love me. _You_ love _me_?’

Richard blew out a breath, stared unhappily at a patch of ground. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly, ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’

‘Why?’ Her voice didn’t seem to belong to her, it was a wistful, wispy thing carried away on the breeze. ‘Why do you love me?’

He looked at her, for a moment incredulous, then took two steps back towards her and looked earnestly into her face.

‘Because you are very beautiful. And very brave – I hadn’t realised just how brave. You are compassionate, intelligent, amusing-’

‘No-one has ever called me that,’ she said, her voice still faint.

‘You make me laugh. Well, you have. On occasion.’

And Hazel laughed then and her fingers ached to reach up and touch the lines of his face until she knew the feel of him as well as she knew him by sight.

‘To me you are everything that is admirable and adorable. You will be married again, Hazel. There will be someone who will be worthy of your love and you will be happy. I am not so selfish that I don’t wish all of those things for you; but I am selfish enough that I don’t want to hear you tell me about them.’ His eyes wandered over her face again, and he had resigned himself. ‘I’ll see about getting you back to Wimbledon.’

‘No.’ Firm. Hazel raised her chin. ‘I don’t want to go back, not ever. I want to stay with you.’

She would remember this, all of it. She would remember the feel of the ground, solid, beneath her feet, and the haze of blossom scent on the air; a blackbird’s shrill complaint mingling with the high, happy cries of children carrying across the park; no matter what happened afterwards she would always remember this, these precious seconds when the voice she had kept at bay for so long finally returned to her, for the rest of her life.

‘I-’ She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Once more and then the cockerel crows.’

He frowned. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘You have denied me as your secretary, Richard, and as your friend. Would you really deny me a third time? As your wife?’

‘My-’ He stared at her wildly.

‘You have done me the courtesy of being honest with me, and I am determined to do the same. I think that you are kindest man that I have ever known. And the most honourable and decent, and by far the most attractive- Well, you are,’ she added, seeing his protest. No blush warmed her cheeks now; she marvelled at her own calmness. ‘I cannot bear the thought of not seeing you each day. You see, I can be selfish, too. I love you. I think that I have always loved you, even if I didn’t realise it for quite some time.’

He still stood away from her – _too far away_ – and she could see the rise and fall of his chest. ‘Hazel… Hazel, are you sure about what you are saying, are you absolutely sure?’

‘Yes. Oh, yes. So, would have me for your wife?’

‘More to the point, will you have me for a husband? I have very little to offer you.’

‘Everything that I want is you. That doesn’t sound very ladylike, does it? But it is the truth.’

There was a moment of stillness and then he caught hold of her hand, pulling her with him as he made a determined line towards the park gates onto Piccadilly.

‘Where are we going?’ she gasped, breathless.

‘A jewellers, for a ring.’

‘But-’ Hazel dug her heels into the soft tufts of grass, bringing both of them to a halt. ‘But it’s too late, they’ll all be closed.’

He turned to face her and the look in his eyes then caused her heart to perform a deliciously painful lurch.

‘So they will. And I have forgotten something far more important.’

For a moment his fingers danced across her cheekbones, the lines of her jaw, followed the curves of her neck before sliding up into her hair. ‘Hazel, my darling.’

It was the sweetest kiss of her life, and the deepest, and it held all the promise of passion and tenderness. Hazel wound her arms around him, holding him to her, breathing him in, until her very bones were liquid and everything was hazy. She rested her forehead against his shoulder, relished the sensation of his arm about her waist and the hand that stroked her hair.

‘I thought that you would marry Lady Prudence,’ she murmured indistinctly against his collar.

‘Marry Prudence? What on earth made you think that?’

Hazel raised her head. ‘I rather think that she is expecting you to.’

A laugh. ‘I can’t see why she… Oh God, is she?’ He looked horrified.

‘She would if you asked her. She’s very fond of you, Richard.’

For a moment he looked beyond her; and then he shook it off. ‘Well, it can’t be helped. She’ll get over it.’

Later, Hazel thought, she might spare a note of sympathy for the lady in question, but not now. Not when happiness had filled her up and coloured everything about her and he still had his arm around her. Here, openly, in public, not caring who saw them. Not that there were many people about; the park was sinking into shades of silver and indigo, the sky rich and clear.

‘Oh, Richard, I really don’t want to have to go back to Wimbledon.’

‘You could always stay at the house.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Wouldn’t that be rather scandalous?’

Richard shrugged lightly. ‘I don’t see why. It isn’t as though we’d be… That is, you would have your own room. And James will be there – he can act as chaperone. It will be good practice for him,’ he added, a flash of amusement in his eyes.

And if James were not there? she wondered and a long-forgotten heat speared through her.

‘All right?’

Hazel nodded. ‘All right.’

Richard raised her hand to his lips, then tucked it into the crook of his elbow, his hand resting over hers. In turn, and for the first time, Hazel lifted her fingers to his face, running them softly down his cheek. A shared smile, and they made their way across the park.

 

Fin

**Author's Note:**

> I have recently got back into _Upstairs, Downstairs_ and was reminded of what an excellent job David Langton and Meg Wynn Owen did of portraying a very complex relationship - and it would have been wonderful to see Hazel get the happy ending that she deserved. So, I decided to give it to her.
> 
> I adored Virginia and her and Richard's relationship, but before she came along, I was rooting for Hazel.


End file.
